


Loving Without Time to Love at All

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Bittersweet, Drarry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Harry hugs everyone, Hugs, M/M, Nobody else is though, One Shot, POV Outsider, Sort Of, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Voldemort is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 10:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: After he's gone back and time and stopped Voldemort from ever beginning, Harry is left one day before his actions cause him to cease to exist.[Or: The one where Harry Potter hugs everyone.]





	Loving Without Time to Love at All

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Loving Without Time to Love at All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067786) by [ilianabanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilianabanana/pseuds/ilianabanana)



> Fuck, I don't know. I did a thing? I love any and all of you who read this, hugs to the gorgeous unicorns who leave kudos, glomps and kisses to the amaze-balls brave ass motherfuckers who leave comments.
> 
> You're all beautiful and I don't deserve any of you.

Lily Potter has never seen war, neither has she seen her beautiful, lovely son with long hair, and she had seen him just yesterday when he'd visited for dinner. Now he stands before her, in her house, and he looks so very different than the son she knows, the one she'd raised. His hair curls and settles unruly around his shoulders, just past his waist. He has eyes like molten metal for all that they are usually bright and open like the sky. He looks haunted. Why does her baby boy look this way? Distant, cold, broken, rough jagged edges discarded for something as strong as can be mustered when you pull yourself together by force of will even when there's barely anything left.

And why is he looking at her like he's never seen her before in his life? Like she's something he could kneel before and worship? Like she's something long since lost? What's happened since she last saw him? So many questions, normally she'd ask them all, expect an answer and a smile, but she can't. She's too terrified of the answer.

"Your hair is longer," she says instead, because she knows she at least should say something, for all that she's at a loss for words. He takes a shaky little breath, and then he's on her, holding her in his arms like she's the most precious fragile thing he's ever touched, and she really has no idea what to do about that. So she hugs him back, she pretends not to hear the broken whimper or feel the little shiver, and she hugs him as fiercely as she can as she tries to think pleasant thoughts.

She had never thought she'd be willing to raze the Earth, to kill thousands of innocent people if it meant _destroying_ the right one. But right now she feels particularly murderous, and she thinks she'll need to reevaluate exactly who she is later, because she's sure that if she knew who made Harry like this within the span of a day she'd tear their throat out with her teeth, never mind the taste.

* * *

James doesn't really know what to make of his son showing up at his office in the middle of a workday, and is about to tell him to 'Bugger off, I'll see you at dinner, I have work to do,' until he sees his face and is stopped cold. He's an Auror, he's _seen_ eyes like that, normally on much older agents, normally on the faces of people who drink the days away and scream the whole night through and never ever forget a single terrible thing they've seen but smile and say they've survived all the same, even if no one else has. Even if no one else would _want_ to. Seeing eyes like that on his son is more than heartbreaking.

And it should be impossible.

So he does the only thing he can do. He goes right up to him and asks what's wrong, what happened? Harry just gives him a ghost of a smile and says: "I saved the world, dad."

And he looks like he really did. In fact, he looks like he did _far_ more than that. And then James has an armful of Harry Potter, no real answers despite the one given, and no idea what to do. He wonders exactly how much it would cost someone to save the world, and then he wonders why it had to be his son who did it, and then nothing else matters because Harry is shaking and making wet little whimpers into his shoulder.

He hugs him back, because of course he does.

If he's in the middle of his workplace in full view of all of his peers with wet eyes and lips reed-thin from terror and anger, no one mentions it, and no one reminds him of it later, after Harry's left.

* * *

Sirius Black has not seen his godson in a fortnight, not because he didn't want to per se, but because they both led rather busy lives, and Harry wasn't one to show up at his shoddy, dusty little apartment. Always saying he needed a better place if he wanted the company, though the words were never said with heat. So, imagine his surprise when Harry apparates in with very long hair and better posture and a dim smile that speaks of a strange loyalty Sirius doesn't remember ever having earned.

"Padfoot," Harry says in greeting, though he has never called him that before, and the word sounds heavy, like it means more than the breath it took to say it. Harry looks like he's been through hell, and Sirius has no qualms telling him so. Harry just throws his head back and laughs. It's a laugh Sirius has never heard before, and he wonders why it reminds him of rain. Bright green eyes sparkle when they meet his, and then he's being hugged with a strength he had no idea his godson had even possessed.

It feels warm and scared and sad and just as heavy as the appellation he'd used earlier. Sirius wonders at the sudden urge he has to go into battle for this boy, and hugs him back with the same rib-bruising enthusiasm, although it takes both their breaths away.

It's much more peaceful than it has any right to be.

* * *

Harry Potter was an intelligent peer, and someone they cheered for during Quidditch matches simply because he played for their team, but he wasn't necessarily a friend, and tonight is date night. Suffice it to say both Hermione and Ron are very confused, and a little more than irritated when he knocks on their door. They invite him in anyway, or at least Hermione does, and when Ron gives her a look of incredulous exasperation, she gives him a shrug like she's not entirely sure why she did it either.

He looks them both up and down, like he's checking for injuries, for scars. He searches their eyes like he's looking for pain, or familiarity. The oddest thing is, maybe that's _exactly_ what he was looking for. He's a strong presence, stronger than he ever was in school, and he shares space with them like he's known them for years, like it's his _right_ to worry for them. Somehow the whole thing shocks them both into silence. He gives a curt nod after, like he's happy with the results of his silent interrogation of their souls, and it really does feel like he's seen their souls at this point, and then does something else entirely unexpected, he asks about the twins.

Ron gapes for a moment or two, and then reluctantly tells him they're fine even when he'd expected himself to say 'None of your business twat, fuck off'. Hermione smirks, because now she isn't the only one catering to a man neither of them know, neither of them should care enough to talk to. Especially on bloody date night.

Harry just grins, and there's something like mischief in his eyes, like he knows _exactly_ the kind of people the twins are, like he knows just how much trouble they're getting into right this minute and is absolutely _delighted_ that they're in good enough health to get into it.

Then, he does something even more preposterous. He hugs them both. He hugs them like he's been hugging them forever and there's nothing at all wrong with it. Like it's not even the least bit disturbing.

Ron squawks, but his body, almost against his will, leans into it. He wants to punch Harry, and he wants to cry, and he feels a bit like he's coming home when he breathes in wildflowers and winter and dust. He doesn't understand any of it. Doesn't understand how his unerring possessive streak is awkwardly absent when Harry lets him go and turns to do the same to Hermione. Doesn't understand why his cheeks are wet and he desperately wants to tell Harry to stay, because he _knows_ , he just knows Harry is going to go, the bloody idiot.

When Harry leaves and Hermione's face crumples into tears, and her fists curl in frustration, he holds her and he doesn't ask why. Neither of them knows why. It just hurts a little too much, and their hearts are a little too full and a little too empty at the same time, because that was a _stranger_.

That was their friend.

And now he's gone.

* * *

Draco had an [un]friendly rivalry with Potter during their stint at Hogwarts, and despite a few hormone induced wet-dreams, was perfectly fine never seeing him again. Honestly, he really thought he never would. Still, there he is, in all his glory, leaning his hip against Draco's desk in an oddly relaxed, cat-like manner. None of the lights are turned on, but the window behind him is leaking moonlight around his head like a halo, and his eyes are gleaming in a meaningfully heated way.

Gone are the glasses, the arrogance, the innocence, and the shortest, most unattractive hair he'd ever seen. His hair is gorgeous, now, long and tangled and smooth and, he thinks, soft. Harry used to be tall and brash and loud with everything, but, now, he looks contemplative, humble, he makes himself smaller like he thinks something will attack him if he's bigger than he ought to be in spirit or in space. It's so very different that Draco is left wondering what made him that way. What, or who, rather, changed that strong unbreakable boy and turned him into a man who is... Broken? Broken but alive, survived, strong. This strength is different than whatever strength he had before.

Draco imagines this is the strength of someone who has killed to get out on the other side with breath still in his lungs. That bright shiny novelty of someone who has never killed or used cunning or had to steel himself for the worst despite everything is gone, replaced with honor, and prayer, and hope that probably tastes more bitter than the blackest coffee. Draco does not know Harry Potter, and is not someone who normally gleans so much from just one glance, but as soon as he looks Harry in the eyes, he understands him more than he's ever understood anyone in his entire life.

Maybe it was all just in his imagination. He kind of wishes it was, though he already knows it wasn't. Because Harry Potter looks like a soldier who left his soul on the battlefield and he's looking at Draco like maybe Draco can lead him back to it, and that is frightening, because that shouldn't be Harry. Never was Harry.

Harry moves away from his desk to take a step closer, says nothing, face unreadable.

"What are you doing here Potter?" Draco asks, standing his ground, although there shouldn't be anything intimidating about the way Harry silently stalks another step closer.

And then another.

Draco swallows with a click. Feels heat curl in his gut. Wonders if this is some sort of spell. Wonders if turning the lights on will break it.

Another step, and Draco's mouth goes dry. He decides the lights can stay off.

Two seconds later and his heart is in his throat while Harry is inches away from him, their breath mingling, making what little air there is between them warm and damp.

The kiss isn't entirely unexpected, but time stops for it anyway. It isn't chaste. It isn't calm, or small, or wanton. It's _meaningful_ , it's desperate, and wet, and violent, and teeth and copper and tongues tangling while Harry presses flush against him and wraps his arms around his neck and moans in a deep, throaty way. Draco can't help that his hands end up in Harry's hair, or the pleased noise that escapes him when he finds, hey, it really is soft.

He'll never remember how they managed to get to the bed, or how, when their clothes disappeared. He's glad for it, however it happened.

"Draco," Harry pants, whines, directs his fingers to a very delicate place, and spreads his legs wide. Draco doesn't suppress the shiver that comes at the realization of what he's asking for, or the rush that comes with the realization that, yes, they really are doing this. Harry mutters something under his breath as he writhes under him, and Draco is suprised to find his fingers suddenly lubricated.

He didn't even use a wand.

That should _not_ be as hot as it apparently is.

"Is this what you want?" Draco asks with a smirk, sliding one finger in, carefully, slowly. He teases it in and out, making Harry groan, wiggle helplessly, try to fuck himself onto the intrusion, gasp a plea when Draco removes it. "You want me inside of you?"

"Always," Harry sighs, brushing strands of pale blonde hair back with nimble fingers. He's looking up at Draco like... like Draco is everything he's ever wanted, like he's joy, and hope, and happiness, and family. Like he's more. Draco freezes, his breath hitching, because Harry's smiling at him now, and that smile is so helpless, hopeless, sad, and _in love_ that Draco really thinks he might cry.

"Harry," he breathlessly, tremulously, says, in a wet voice that tells him the tears are already falling. He can't stop them. He can't stop this. He can't stop any of it. Harry shushes him, pulls him in for a kiss that only lovers should share, slow and languid and full of futures that have yet to be lived, the unspoken promise that they _will_ be, _together_. Draco finds himself kissing back, giving, taking. He finds himself allowing this, and _wanting_ it.

They kiss while his fingers open Harry up, and they moan, and they writhe, and they grind together until they're both desperate, clinging to each other.

"Please, please, Draco, _please_ ," Harry begs in-between intimate kisses and whimpers and ragged breaths in the dark. Draco hesitates for one more second, thrusts into Harry's prostate one more time, and then he's exchanging his fingers for his dick, and Harry is smiling at him like this is the most beautiful, wonderful thing he's ever experienced in his life. Draco really has to agree.

It's slow, saccharine sweet, and filled with kisses and throaty sounds and more than a few tears. There is more emotion here than Draco could ever properly express out loud, because there just aren't _words_ for this. It feels like making love, like breaking apart with no intention of putting yourself back together again. Harry's legs are wrapped around his waist and his hands are running up and down his ribs, leaving tantalizing little scratches on his back. Draco's arms are bracketing his head, and they're both moving against each other, lips sliding, not exactly kissing anymore, just sharing space, like they can't fathom any part of their bodies not touching.

When Harry comes, clenching, shivering, trembling and sweat-slick, Draco can't help but following right after, leaping off of the precipice without abandon. The pleasure ripples through him and leaves white-hot sparks crowding out his vision. When they're done, sated and sticky, he moves to get off of Harry, to get something to get them both clean, but Harry, however boneless his orgasm made him, manages to tighten his grip.

"Stay," he says in a small shiver voice, "stay with me, please, stay, stay," he's chanting, begging, and Draco thinks that if he leaves him like this right now, Harry might just shatter. Fragile as glass. Suddenly getting clean doesn't matter at all.

"Okay," he says, kissing away salt from Harry's cheeks and wanting fiercely to protect this man from every harmful thing in the world. "Jesus, Harry, okay," he says again, and lets himself go loose in the embrace of his lover, who just accepts all of his weight like it's nothing. He falls asleep to the feeling of a smile pressed against his temple, and heat around his body, and a tinny, coppery, little "Thank you," that makes his chest ache in ways he can't even comprehend.

When he wakes up, he's clean, his sheets are clean, and the only thing left that tells him it wasn't a dream is the taste of salt and cherries and snow still on his tongue. But he knows, knows with a surety that makes him want to weep or to kill, that he will never see _that_ Harry Potter again, for all that it took one insane, romantic, lust-addled night to fall completely in love with him.

He groans into his pillow, and swallows back the new tears that form, not for himself, but for a man he's beginning to think no longer exists.

He has no idea how right he is.

Still, never would he allow himself to be called anything but a man of action.

* * *

Harry, a Harry who has never seen a cupboard under the stairs or a scar on his forehead or a battlefield full of corpses, is more than a little bemused at the sight of a dolled up Draco Malfoy with a bouquet of flowers in hand. The flowers are apparently for him, along with an invite to a date that's even more surprising than that one time one of his students accidentally turned his desk into a thousand bees. Very _angry_ bees.

Harry doesn't really know why he finds himself saying yes.

But he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... there's probably something wrong with me. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
